


Premeditated Accidents

by PokemonRescueSquad



Category: Who Killed Markiplier? (Web Series)
Genre: I tried okay?, Oneshot, my thoughts on how warf came to be, nothing amazing, warfstache centeric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-07
Updated: 2019-08-07
Packaged: 2020-08-11 06:56:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20149519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PokemonRescueSquad/pseuds/PokemonRescueSquad
Summary: Memories are a tough thing to understand because even our most cherished ones aren’t how they really happened. The mind can’t remember everything.





	Premeditated Accidents

It was a 246.

Neighbors had complained and reported the gunshots that had gone off in the Iplier mansion.

The cops drove up to the estate, up the winding road that led towards the house surrounded in a gloomy fog.  
A soft misty air surrounded the mansion as the officers exited their vehicles, eyeing the windows with caution.   
A shadow of what looked like a person passed by one, causing the curtains inside to sway with the sudden gust of movement.

They went to the door before knocking, their guns in hand as they silently eyed each other for quiet reassurance.

They hoped it'd go well this time.

They heard a voice and footsteps before a man pushed the door open for the officers.

A man in a paling yellow dress shirt and khaki pants, sporting red suspenders and rose tinted glasses grinned when he saw the group of officers. 

He struggled to get words out for a moment, his mouth opening and closing in hopes of letting the words on his mind spill out.

"O-oh. Hello. Did Damien and the others hire you too? Are you in on the whole guffaw as well? Oh bully. They really did put in the bucks for this show." The man glanced amongst them before he turned to face the inside of the house again to shout, "come out! You've fooled me good."

The lead officer sighed and stepped into the doorway, his hand never more than a centimeter away from his holstered pistol.

"Sir, where is Mark Iplier, the owner of this house?" He asked.   
The man froze midstep, his shoulders hunched over.

"Mark Iplier?" He scrunched his face in thought. "Oh! You must mean Markiplier. The fellow goes by that now. He always was a strange-"

"Where is the owner of this house?" The officer repeated, his voice harsher.

He watched the man stop his ramble and glance over to him once more.

His voice sounded distant, confused at the words that he was even uttering.  
"Why he...why he..." The man was at a loss for words before he let out a few laughs. 

An officer furrowed his brow, hoping the psychiatric division didn't need to be called over. 

The man regained the ability to use his tongue and said, "Why, if I were to guess, I'm sure he's hiding away with those rapscallions who set up this whole thing." He replied, attempting to hold back the second bout of laughter.

Some officers exchanged nervous glances as the man ran a hand through his hair.

"I mean...they're okay. Alive. Well. Just playing a little joke is all. Got me good." His smile was glued to his face but his gaze became distant, staring down at the tiled flooring in front of him. "I didn't...I didn't kill anyone." He said, his voice cracking before going completely silent. 

The man stood there, shaking ever so slightly, his mind breaking under the sudden pressure of the two contradicting things he saw that night.

His thoughts drowned out the officers orders and commands. His knees began to buckle under the weight of his body, a grin spreading across this face while he let his body sink to the floor.

An officer cautiously stepped towards the man, hoping he wouldn't snap back into reality.

But the man didn't, his mind replayed the scenes.

His childhood friend falling prey to the game of Russian Roulette that had been rigged from the start.

The detective who grabbed at his pistol, trying to twist it out of William's grip as he berated the man about his scandal that he wasn't the only one to blame for.

The D.A. with a face shrouded in fog falling over the bannister of the second floor down to the ground, left to bleed to death from his gunshot wound. Only to get back up after four or six or however many hours William spent mourning and denying his fault in all of the murders that had occurred in that cursed house.

Then his love...and Damien.

They vanished in a flash of light and a booming crack that echoed in his mind. His heart still raced at that cracking bang of lightning across the stormy sky, though now it wasn't because of war trauma.  
His hands itched to twist at that cane once more. The black wood felt somewhat soothing in those hours where he stood watch on the D.A's cold and unmoving body, trying to wrap his scrambled and fractured mind on what had just occurred.

He snapped out of his thoughts, and jerked out of the hold of whoever was trying to cuff him. The police shouted something, but he payed no mind to it. William stood up and looked back into the house before walking back in. His gait was quick as he made his way back to the foyer that he'd spent mourning. 

The bloody spot the D.A's body had once laid, broken and unusable, was still there.  
His gaze was moved to the mirror he'd left the cane at.

It had vanished.

William scrunched his brow in confusion.  
And then, a shadowy mass moved, seemingly inside of the mirror. His eyes widened and he opened his mouth to make an exclaimation at the sight.  
Only to be cut short by the cop grabbing him, mighty forcibly if he may say, and slamming his body onto the ground. They pulled his arms behind his back, shouting orders and demands at him which he tried to hear but a ringing noise filled his ears.

William spewed out nonsense, rambling about how they weren't dead. That they should look at all the evidence, listen to him, anything.

He was shoved along the hall, as he tried to glance back at the photographers, detectives, and others so he could get them to listen.

When he was almost out of the cursed house, something caught his eye.

A figure.   
It looked like...

"Damien?" He uttered. All the pieces seemingly clicked together. But...then again it didn't. No one died...but they did...he had blood on him. But...there he was standing with his cane, blue and red filaments of...something arching off of his body.  
William struggled once again under the grasp of the cop, trying to get to his old friend.   
"Damien! Damien, you rapscallion get these guys off me. I get it. The jokes over. I'm done laughing. It's...Damien. Damien! Its-its not funny anymore." He shouted, before having himself placed into the lawn, blue and red lights flooding his vision as he was shoved into the back of a police cruiser.


End file.
